


Icarus Fallen

by Kantayra



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-29
Updated: 2005-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sark reflects upon how he changed in captivity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet is my strange attempt at reconciling Sark from S4 with every single thing we've learned about Sark previously. (Random character inconsistencies? OOC? What ever do you speak of? :P So, this is spoilerish for 'A Man of His Word' and takes places very shortly thereafter.

Sark didn’t often indulge himself like this.

In fact, he never indulged himself like this. He enjoyed fine food and drink, yes. He savored expensive clothing and fine automobiles. He was even known to treat himself to pleasurable female company on occasion, when circumstances allowed. But he admitted that he’d somewhat overdone it this time.

The room about him was lavish, the finest suite of the finest hotel in all Marseilles. Rich velvet carpeting to massage his feet, elegant Louis XIV to rest upon, and a fully canopy bed complete with mahogany headboard and crimson silk sheets to enjoy himself.

The bed was where he lay now, staring up at the incised figures on the ceiling, watching the angels and doves as they flew their circuit on the blue-painted sky above. Back down on earth, he hardly felt as serene as they all looked, or even as detached.

He looked away as they seemed to mock him, reminding him of what he had once been and how very far he’d fallen. That he even possessed the childish notion to attach intention to such still figures indicated how much he had unraveled in the last few years.

The room below, of course, was no improvement. The silver dinner tray of earlier that evening rested in one corner, the last reminders of his meal upon it: a crust of bread, a few pieces of cheese, one last leg of crab, and just a few more spoonfuls of that absolutely sinful mousse topped by luscious ripe peaches.

To the left of the dining cart stood a small antique table, complete with wine decanter, bottles, and fine crystal glasses. The white had matched his meal of the previous evening, and he’d savored its body, bouquet, the subtle aftertaste on his tongue. But he’d always had a bit of a soft spot for the red, so he’d opened the bottle to breathe and left it in the decanter as a treat for the morning after.

And the morning after would be quite an event, indeed. It was the height of his excess, in many ways. He supposed extended incarceration would affect any man thus, prod him to seek the reaffirmation of his life – his freedom – in as pleasurable company as he could find. And Sark had more than enough power to ensure that he never lacked for pleasurable company.

The woman on his right was named Natalia, if he remembered correctly. He’d just met her the night before, learned that she’d come from Irina’s rather fine school of the intimate arts, and not cared about the rest. She was blonde, leggy, highly skilled in all forms of pleasure, and would easily be forgotten in a day’s time.

The woman on his left, however, was a mistake. He’d known Rosa since she was fourteen and he sixteen. Her father was General Jose Valquez, whose last action before the Panamanian government defeated his coup had been to send his family to Irina for safekeeping. General Valquez had, of course, survived due to a rather fortuitous conflict between the Panamanians and the CIA, and Irina had used his family to gain every bit of influence over his new operations in Venezuela that she could. Rosa had remained young and blissfully unaware that she was being used to manipulate her father. She’d also been rather taken with Sark’s youth and charm, although he’d never pressed the advantage until tonight.

But when he’d seen her in the lobby that evening – still working for one of the many warlords that now squabbled over Irina’s fallen empire – he’d taken it as an opportunity too good to pass up. Especially since she’d brought a friend along for the ride.

The problem with such a dalliance lay in the fact that he would require her father’s assistance to reestablish his own standing, and tossing Rosa out of his bed the morning after was most certainly not the best way to facilitate that goal. Feigning affection for her would be wearisome and would undoubtedly unnecessarily stall his operations.

He’d known all this even as her thick, red lips had wrapped around the base of his cock and sucked him in deep. At the time, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He still wasn’t entirely sure he did.

Natalia’s body shifted against him, and her breasts brushed his side, one long tapered leg sliding over his belly and rubbing him to arousal once more. He sighed and savored her warmth, let it seep into him and remind him that he was free of that dank, soulless prison now. His cock twitched at remembered echoes of her body, soft and pliant beneath him as her internal muscles spasmed around him in pleasure.

He’d entirely lost himself in her in that moment – in a complete stranger – and left himself open and vulnerable to her. To them both.

It simply wasn’t the sort of mistake Sark made.

True, when he’d been younger and the pleasure of killing had become commonplace but sex was still new and exciting, he’d enjoyed himself a bit more than he probably should have. Although even then he’d still valued his self-control and moderated his intimacies accordingly.

Last night hadn’t been about self-control in the slightest, however. It had been about snatching every delight life had to offer, drowning himself in bliss, and screaming his throat raw with ecstasy.

And if the occasional Sark-like thought had flitted through his mind – _The only way to leave this night with General Valquez’ loyalty intact is to have his daughter killed discreetly and immediately_ – he’d tossed it aside. He didn’t want blood and death to spoil this time and place. Not yet.

Soon, he’d kill again: find one of his enemies and split their skull with a .38. Or maybe he’d move in closer, use his hands and squeeze breath from lungs, feel death beneath his fingertips. He had no doubt that, once he did, he’d feel more like his old self. Or, at least, he counted on the fact that he would. The old Sark – the Sark he needed to be – wouldn’t have considered failure as a possibility for even a second. He didn’t want to think what it meant that he had doubts now.

So, for now, he buried himself within the burning flesh of his companions and allowed himself to savor the experience. He wondered how long they could lay like this, in his hotel room, the larger world locked out. Another day? Certainly. A week? That would take some doing, but he was confident enough of his stamina and persuasive talents to believe that he could pull it off.

A week wasn’t such a great amount of time, really. The world of espionage had survived months without his influence. Surely another week wouldn’t matter.

He didn’t let himself dwell on why, exactly, he was so reluctant to return. Fear was an emotion he’d always been blissfully free of: he could talk himself out of most painful situations, and any other death he might experience would be so sudden, there was simply nothing to be gained by dwelling upon it.

Now, however, he’d finally found something to fear in this world. He didn’t take well to captivity, it seemed. The slow, inexorable knowledge that his body and mind were going to waste. The world and all its machinations continuing without him, alliances and betrayals and plots and missions all without his watchful eye and subtle influence. It was worse than being dead, in a way. It was total helplessness, uselessness…

He turned his head to see that Rosa’s sleepy eyes were open and she was smiling at him. Here, at least, he’d exerted his power and all too well, if that smile on her lips spoke the truth. No danger or risk of future incarceration, just pure, unadulterated pleasure. He could get used to that…

“You look tired,” she informed him in that soft, exotic accent of hers, and he nuzzled her cheek in agreement. Contact was vital now, touch… “Sleep.”

And he wanted to tell her – and to remind himself – that he couldn’t. That that was the one rule he never broke. _Never close your eyes on a potential enemy._ And since everyone was a potential enemy… He should have remembered years of pretending to fall asleep, slipping out of beds in the middle of the night to finally land his exhausted body someplace safe.

Instead, he nodded, closed his eyes, and slept. Surrendered to the pleasure and the pain and everything _human_ he’d fought to control in himself for so long. He slept as innocents did, deeply, and unconcerned that such carelessness could lead to betrayal and death. Slept as the angels above would.

And he was lucky this time. He would wake up the next morning still free, still in pleasurable company, but just a little bit less Sark.


End file.
